Once I saw a vixen and a dog fox dancing. It was on the other side of the cul-de-sac, past the Gunns’ place, through the trees, where the stream draws a wet line in spring. There was old snow on the ground that day, soft and slushy, and the trees were naked; I had my woolen mittens on. I was following the stream, and above and between the sound of the stream was the sound of birds, and also nested baby squirrels. The foxes, when I found them, were down by the catacombs, doing a slow-dance shuffle. Standing upright, I swear, palm to palm, with black socks on, red coats.
At school I didn’t tell Margie about the fox dance, or David, or Karl. I didn’t even tell Mr. Sheepals, in science, because it was what he’d call a non sequitur. My fox-dance story was an animal-kingdom story, and this was two years ago, second semester, eighth grade, when we were stuck on photosynthesis.
I have a sister, but she reads fashion magazines all day. My mother doesn’t care for the woods. I kept my fox-dance story to myself, and I won’t share it with others even now. It is my secret.
It’s the other stuff I give away—the way I read the sky, the way I watch the sun, the forty-two flavors of breeze. It’s everything people don’t look for until it’s too late, until they need a metaphor or a simile to help promote their love. They don’t have to come to me, but they almost always do. They know I’ve got it covered.